


Illuminations

by denynothing1



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-12-30
Updated: 1998-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 07:06:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/denynothing1/pseuds/denynothing1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A conversation in a motel room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Illuminations

**Author's Note:**

> Set between "Drive" and "Triangle"

***

The tattoo of my heels on the pavement matches the beat of my heart, thudding in my ears. Why isn't he answering his phone?

Knocking on his motel room door, I feel passing pride at managing to keep my voice brisk and professional. "Mulder? Mulder, are you there?"

"It's open, Scully."

The door swings open at my tentative push. I peer into the dingy room, and automatically shield my eyes against the glare coming through the west-facing window. Backlit, he is sitting at the cheap laminate table, staring at an unlit candle, stuck in the neck of a beer bottle.

"What are you doing, Mulder?"

"It's sundown, Scully."

"Mulder, they've got a new invention now, called electricity. My guess is that even Bakersfield has had it for at least a year or so. Did you try the light switch?"

He looks up at me with the same stunned mullet look he's been wearing since he staggered from the car at the ocean's edge.

I try another tack. "Where did you get the candle?"

"Liquor store on the corner. You want a beer, Scully?"

"Why are you sitting here drinking beer, Mulder? You need water, not alcohol." I move toward him to place a hand on his forehead, his cheek, the back of his hand, checking for signs of dehydration after his long desert drive.

He submits to the examination quietly. "I didn't drink it, I poured it in the sink. I just needed the bottle."

"For the candle?" He simply stares back, the usual response to an obvious question. "Seance, Mulder?"

"Sabbath, Scully."

"It's Friday, Mulder -- oh."

Suddenly, the tacky chair across from his looks like a refuge. I drop down and try to recover. "I didn't think you... You've never said, one way or the other..." Silence seems like a better option.

He is staring at the candle again. The sun has moved farther down in the sky, and the direct light is now partially blocked. The room is almost too dim for me to see his expression, but the subtle shifting of his position in the chair signals his discomfort. 

"I can't..." He stops. Starts again. "When I was ten I saw my mother in the kitchen with Sam. I got home early from playing ball one night, and I saw them." 

The long pause that follows this admission pushes me to prompt him. "What did you see?"

"My Mom had a scarf on her head. She was lighting a candle and talking to Sam. I didn't understand what she was saying. It... was pretty." 

The wistful tone in his voice almost deludes me into thinking I am about to hear a fond Mulder family memory. "I just wanted to watch, but I must have made a noise. She looked up and knocked the candle over and... Sam started to cry. 

The lisp that always betrays pain is creeping into his voice. So much for fond memories. "Mom threw the candle in the sink, then came after me. She grabbed my arm and told me to go to my room. We never talked about it. I never saw them do it again."

"Why was she so angry?" 

"Not angry -- scared."

My mind leaps to the one source of fear I know existed in that house. "Was your father -- God, Mulder, from what we know of the project -- how could he.... Were they hiding their background from those monsters?"

"He wasn't Jewish, Scully."

Six years, I think. He knows a bit about this part of my life, though I've been reluctant to share everything. But this part of his life? Despite having a mind wide open -- too open -- to extreme possibilities, Mulder has always been so disdainful about this sort of belief that I never wanted to ask him about his own. It's obviously painful for him to tell.

He is letting a deep breath out in a rush of words. "I never figured it out till later. I never met her family. My grandfather -- my father's father -- he hated us. I only saw him a few times, when we went to the city. He used to sneer at my father and ignore my Mom and Sam and me."

I struggle to find something to say. "Your parents must have loved each other very much to have put up with that, Mulder."

He finally looks up at me. "Will you light the candle, Scully?" He says softly. "The sun is setting."

"Mulder... I don't know how."

He pulls a book of matches from his back pocket and tosses them on the table. "To do it right... I can't. It's supposed to be the wo-- a woman."

I suppress a sigh. I have been fighting this for years. I don't want to be a substitute for either his mother or his sister. Then I catch his eye, and realize that the look he is giving me is neither filial nor fraternal. "Mulder...," I start, more in protest of the look than the request.

His expression changes. "Mary did it. Every Sabbath. All her life."

I feel a flash of anger. "That's not my objection, Mulder. Don't try to manipulate me. Not over this."

He drops his eyes and mutters something that might, just possibly, be an apology.

So, of course, I get up and reach for the matches. "I don't know any of the prayers," I say, hesitantly.

"He glances up, then back to the candle. "Just light it, Scully." 

The flare from the match blinds me a little, and then the soft glow from the candle makes a little haven of light in the dreary room. I want to say something -- a prayer. But all I can think of at the moment is to close my eyes and send up a silent appeal: 'Please help me do the right thing.' 

Mulder responds to my gesture with a soft, "Thank you." 

I want to know what has brought this on, but haven't a clue which question is the right one to ask. Until I entered this room, I thought we had gotten back on track during this case -- well, parallel tracks maybe, but at least headed in the same direction. I gaze at the candle and hope it doesn't symbolize the light from yet another oncoming train. The break in the almost hypnotic silence startles me when he begins to speak again.

"Did you ever hear what they used to say about the Boston Brahmin families, Scully? That the Cabots spoke only to the Lodges, and the Lodges spoke only to God? My father's family was like that." 

"I'm afraid my family didn't run in such rarefied circles, Mulder." 

His grimace acknowledges my little jab. "Yeah, you would have been real popular with my grandfather. He was an equal-opportunity bigot." He crosses his arms over his chest and starts to rock back and forth on his chair, going further each time. I suppress the urge to reach for him each time he seems dangerously close to toppling backward.

"Was the tension... was there much tension between your parents because of that, Mulder?"

"No... at least, not when we were little." He is shaking his head slowly. "The Vineyard was our refuge, I guess. We didn't have to run into people like my grandfather for most of the year -- only in the summer. And that crowd stayed pretty far away from Chilmark. We were safe. Mom was mostly happy. But there were days -- times -- things got really... strained. I think I know why, now. But I had to learn about it on my own. Nobody ever taught me, or told me anything about that part of Sam and me."

The memory of my own family, side by side in a pew on Sunday, six across when my father was home, flashes through my mind. And I think of family stories, told and retold -- the only roots we had, in an otherwise rootless existence. "How did you find out?" 

"When I started looking into Sam's... disappearance, I got some records. Not everything. I'd figured out by then that my dad was supposed to go into the foreign service and make a name for himself behind the scenes... that's what someone from his class did in those days." He spits out the word 'class' as if it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "He married my mom pretty soon after he got involved in the project. All I could find out was that her family was originally from Holland. And then I hit a lot of walls. She won't tell me. And he never got the chance to tell me anything... even if he wanted to." 

His voice is growing increasingly bitter. I hate this. I hate what opening up these old wounds does to him. Families should be a source of strength. Mulder's seems to be a bottomless well of pain.

"Mulder..." I never know how to approach the subject of his mother. "Your father must have thought he was doing something good -- something right. Perhaps he thought he was somehow protecting your mother --"

At this, he shoots a startled look directly at me. "On the day my Dad left, he pulled me outside. We stood by the car and he shook me. He told me that, no matter what, I must protect my mother. I didn't understand... I thought he hated her by then, but sometimes he seemed afraid of her too. Or for her. I don't know. I never forgot what he said. I-- I always tried to do it -- to protect her."

I feel a physical shiver of memory -- of the fiercest eyes I have ever seen boring into mine, and a grim voice telling me to 'Protect the mother'.

Mulder hasn't noticed my reaction. "Later on, I had to learn how to protect myself." His eyes drop to my throat. "Do people make assumptions based on that, Scully?" 

I touch my hand to the little symbol. A touch that has always comforted me. "I suppose they do. I've never thought much about it. I've never noticed a negative reaction because of it."

"Would you take it off if you got one?"

My response is automatic. "Of course not."

"Even if it would make life easier?" 

"No, Mulder."

"People have died for less, Scully. You ever think of that?"

The challenge in his voice makes me bristle. "It's not worn lightly, Mulder."

"So popular opinion wouldn't sway you, even if popular opinion was backed up by a law -- or a weapon?"

The disdain in my voice finally matches his. "You may think of me as a conformist, Mulder, but the fact is that I've never used popular opinion as a guide for any choice in my life. If that was the best reason for taking it off, I never would." 

I get the first hint of a smile for the evening, although his overall aspect is still dark enough to keep me wary. "Me either. Especially if it would make 'em even more pissed off." 

My growing suspicions are reinforced by the sudden appearance of my protective impulse, the one that always surprises me when things like this happen. Mulder can stand up for himself -- I've seen him in action. But that doesn't inhibit my instinctive reaction. "Mulder, did someone say something to you -- someone in the Boise office, or the one here?" 

"No."

"Then what --" I suddenly remember his constant companion of the last day or so. "Was it Crump? What did he say, Mulder?" My sympathy for the man who died so horribly evaporates instantaneously.

"Nothing. It's not important, Scully."

"Mulder --"

"Let's just say that when we all meet in hell, I'm going to enjoy showing my grandfather how much he has in common with a cracker like Crump."

"You're not going to hell, Mulder."

"You know something I don't, Scully?" He looks pointedly back at my throat. 

I refuse to take the bait, and modulate my voice carefully. "I don't need a formal belief system to know that somehow you will be rewarded for being a good man who tries to do the right thing, and for caring deeply for others, especially when they are suffering."

"St. Fox, patron of the warped?"

"Don't push it, Mulder. Nobody said anything about sainthood, just that you're not going to hell."

The chair comes down with a thump. "Maybe we're already there," he says. The detachment has left his voice.

Alarmed, I ask, "What does that mean?"

"This assignment... domestic terrorism. Bombers and fanatics... We have to get back to the X-Files." 

Here we go. "Mulder, we are hanging on by the skin of our teeth. God knows what Kersh is going to do to us when we get back to D.C."

He starts rocking again. "I don't care. The X-Files are the way out... the only way to go forward. We have to get them back." He looks at me intently. "Are you with me Scully?"

"Mulder, we will figure out a way to get back the X-Files -- but running off on our own is probably not the best method."

He stares at me. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

I'm going to lose him soon. This last episode was just the dress rehearsal for the real ditch that is coming. He's wound so tight he's going to spring off in God knows what direction, leaving me trying to avoid the backlash. "Mulder, stop. I will support you. You know that."

My words seem to shame him a little, and he shifts his gaze back to the candle. His words surprise me. "If the last two days proved anything, Scully, it's how well we work as a team." 

"You don't have to convince me of something I've been trying to pound into you for years, Mulder."

I get another grimace of acknowledgment. "When Crump threw the phone out the window, I was ready to jump after it." 

I wish you'd thrown Crump after it, I think crossly, still annoyed at what I can only guess was said in that car. I try to shake off the non-productive thoughts. "You didn't think that was going to stop me from communicating with you, did you, Mulder?"

He shrugs in reply.

"Just before you called on the replacement cell, I had convinced the jet pilot to skywrite 'Mulder, it's me,' over the Mojave." 

He finally looks back up at me, with a soft smile -- a true one this time. "Always gotta have the first word, right Scully? Not to mention the last one. And most of the ones in between." 

Thank you, I think. This is working, for now. "How would you manage without them, Mulder?" 

He makes a rueful noise -- too pained to be a laugh. "I wouldn't." He gazes at me intently once again. "I know now. I... can't." 

Marveling at the power that look has, to cause me comfort and discomfort in equal measure, I turn my own gaze to the flickering candle. So, here we are. Back in another awful motel room, dissecting Mulder's childhood and other disasters by candlelight. Deja vu all over again. 

"It reeks in here, Mulder. You should have run the water after you poured out the beer."

"Maybe I should have gotten a scented candle."

For some awful reason, that strikes us both as funny. 

Encouraged, by the lighter mood, I confide, "I hate the smell of beer. I got sick drinking it once." 

"Next time I'll buy champagne."

"Mm, I like that."

"It's a date." He's looking at me steadily. 

Not in a dismal excuse for a motel room in Bakersfield, it's not. I deserve better than that. We both do. Damn. I start some rocking of my own. "I remember a song about beer from school that always made me laugh. The part I liked best was 'run, run, run, I think I hear a nun, grab all the bottles you can hold...'" 

I've definitely refocused his attention. His brows are beginning to lift and he looks as if he's stumbled across the manifestation of something truly bizarre. A little of the half-remembered tune creeps into my voice. "'If she grabs you by the ear, say, "Sister, have a beer," from the cellars of St. Gregory's school'." I trail off, thoroughly embarrassed.

"You have a really bad voice, Scully."

"Thank you, Mulder."

"No -- it's bad, but I like it. Did you ever get caught?"

"It's just a kid's song, Mulder."

He holds my gaze. "I know. Did you ever get caught?"

"Not by the nuns."

"Really? How'd they get their rep? Just good public relations?"

"Nuns can be all right. I... actually learned a motto from one of them that got me through a lot of tight adolescent situations."

He smirks. "Something tells me it wasn't 'The only way to avoid suffering from temptation is to give into it.'"

"No, it... was the opposite of that. 'Never believe anything a boy says when he's lying on top of you.'"

"I think you need a new motto, Scully. 'Never believe anything a nun tells you about boys.'"

"No?"

"Nope. For example, I'll always tell you the truth. Especially in that position." 

Oh, great. I just wanted to make him smile again. I'm not sure what to do with the look he's giving me now. Past time, I think, to get back to whatever subject we were using to get our minds off the serious stuff. 

"Um, Bill caught me drinking once, that-- the time I got sick," I stammer. "It was my last year of high school." 

Mulder, bless him, picks up the right thread. "But Scully, you lived to tell about it."

"Don't worry, Mulder. He didn't spare me his disapproval. Just my father's." 

He drops his smile, and my gaze. Staring at the candle again, he says, "I drank some of my dad's leftover Scotch when I was thirteen. Got sick as a dog."

"Did you get caught?"

"Yeah. After my mom made me clean it up, we both pretended it was stomach flu, and I had to stay home from school the next day. That was punishment enough. I never did it again."

God, Mulder, I think, reflecting on everything he's told me tonight. You are surely the world's biggest pain in the ass. But how come you're not worse? 

The cheap candle has dripped most of its length away. The flame is starting to gutter, and wax is pooling on the table. Despite my best efforts, the stunned mullet look has reappeared. 

"Mulder, you're exhausted. Go take a shower and try to get some sleep."

To my surprise, he gets up abruptly, stumbling as the chair snags the tattered rug. I stand up too, and reach for his arm, but he's moving away from me, so I catch his hand instead. To avoid the look in his eye, I take the coward's way out, and lean over to blow out the candle. He stops me with his other hand, running it up and down my arm, gently, slowly.

"Thanks for listening, Scully."

Suddenly, a candle has never seemed so fascinating. "That's what I'm here for Mulder."

"Is that all?" He moves our clasped hands up toward his chest.

Definitely time to leave. "You should be grateful for this much Mulder. Do you know what kind of trip I had getting to you?"

"At least you didn't have to drive."

I steal a quick glance upward, then lean back over the table and blow out the candle. Suddenly, the room is lit only by the flickering neon sign outside the window. 

The beat of my heart is thudding in my ears again, this time in syncopation with the one I feel through the pressed-together palms of our hands. I let go, and walk to the door. He moves slowly in the opposite direction, and at the bathroom door, snaps on the light. Backlit once again.

"Big shower, Scully." 

Even though his spirit may be willing, and my flesh is definitely weak, he's so weary he's practically reeling, and the leer in his voice is strictly pro forma. 

"Good night, Mulder," I say. He lifts his hand in a small, forlorn gesture that almost breaks my resolve.

As I walk back to my own room, the tattoo of my heels on the pavement the only sound I can hear. My heart must still be back in that room, I think, beating next to his.

***

**Author's Note:**

> The first motto quoted is from Oscar Wilde. The second is from... someone else. The attribution escapes me, unfortunately. It is not original. The third is from Amy S.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to Amy S. for careful beta-reading, which means not only pointing out the rough edges and the awkward spots, but suggesting novel and interesting ways to fix them. Thanks also to Audrey Roget, for giving an early version of this story a generous assessment. Audrey's "Illuminati" examines themes, somewhat similar to those explored here, in a wonderful way. Thanks also to Paula Graves for past support and encouragement, and for a kind and constructive appraisal of this story. 
> 
> (Contemporaneous) Notes: I've watched the X-Files since the pilot, and, for a very long time, the issue of Mulder's background was a non-issue for me -- he was, no doubt, a WASP. He presented many of the outward cues of someone of that background, plus the northeastern geographical roots that fit that profile. 
> 
> That was how I thought about it (if I thought about it at all), although Mulder's interaction with the Hebrew scholar in Kaddish, and his wistful (as I heard it ) comment "I don't know how to read Hebrew." gave me a bit of a pause. I still didn't think that Mulder had been raised with any sense of Jewish tradition, but more recently, the idea occurred to me that his mother might be Jewish and non-practicing (or perhaps secretly practicing) for sinister (social or project-related) reasons. 
> 
> While this intrigued me, it also made even more horrifying the implication that she may have been used and/or victimized by the consortium, and its Mengele-like members. This back-of-my-mind thought came forward again during the Mulder/Crump exchanges in Drive, and this story, which barely scratches the surface of these ideas and their implications, is the result. I'm still not sure how I stand on this issue -- this story has resolved nothing for me. I wouldn't be surprised if 1013 played it either way, or no way, and left the whole subject a mystery. 
> 
> From recent discussions at atxf-analysis, I've learned that both Mulder and Kuipers (Mulder's mother's name) are Dutch names. Since, as anyone who's read Edith Wharton knows, the old northeastern/mid-Atlantic Dutch families could put the Boston Brahmins to shame in the area of snobbery, and since Holland was one settling place for many Jewish families during the Diaspora, both names fit the story idea I've proposed. I realize that this is a lot of analysis for such a slight little story, but I thought some might be interested in where the ideas came from.
> 
> (Current) Note: I think this was the last story I wrote in First Person. Thank goodness.
> 
> Thanks are due to RivkaT who pointed out in her very kind and generous feedback many years ago that Sabbath candles should be let alone to burn out and should never be blown out. I gave much thought to changing the story, but decided that Mulder's memory for the proper details of the ceremony would be vague and Scully would not know that she had gone against tradition, so I let their actions stand.


End file.
